


Third Degree

by sierraadeux



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Arson, Arsonist Dan, Established Relationship, Firefighter Phil, M/M, Mild Angst with a happy ending, Non-graphic injuries, not relationship angst tho!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierraadeux/pseuds/sierraadeux
Summary: Dan sets fires. Phil puts them out.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 64
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for some reason I haven't felt as passionate about anything as I have while writing this au so I feel a bit tender sharing her with all of you. I feel like I should disclaim that my knowledge of firefighting and arson is very US centric as it's simply from the Chicago Fire hole I fell into. also for some reason I really couldn't take myself seriously typing "fire brigade" so I am very, very sorry brits.  
> biggest thanks and shouts to Kelly, with whom this inspiration and story would never exist. she said arsonist dan and she was absolutely correct.

There’s something peaceful in a fire. Once lit, a blaze that has a mind of its own, nothing stopping it from engulfing everything in its wake. It burns, and it takes, and it embraces the chaos. 

Dan loves to watch the blaze, as it sparks, as he runs - looking over his shoulder, always risking the fall, but especially from afar. Admiring his work from a distance, not for safety, nor for the fear of getting caught, but for the whole picture. Billowing smoke high in the sky, orange swallowing the building whole, the muted heat still on his face - it’s peaceful. 

Serene. Calm. One of the few things that can clear Dan’s mind. 

Dan’s an arsonist walking into a fire station, and it might seem like the biggest display of irony, but that’s, _well_ , because it is. If there’s anything Dan loves more than the flames, it’s ironic humor. And also, Phil. Dan loves nothing more than Phil. Not the spark or the flames or the smoke. 

If there was one thing that could stop Dan from his favorite hobby, it would probably be Phil, but they both know that will never happen. There’s a shared spark there, different but the same. 

Dan likes to set fires, and Phil likes to put them out. 

It’s hot, almost unbearably so, as the sun beats down on the back of Dan’s neck. The whole walk to the firehouse has been serenaded by that low buzz Dan associates with summer - it’s some sort of bug they say, Dan doesn’t really care. His shorts are clinging to his skin as he walks, he’s not sure if there’s a place on his body where sweat isn’t pooling. But it barely had anything to do with the walk outside, his flat is in an alarmingly old building and for some reason that means any form of air conditioning is unheard of. He’s been thoroughly coated in sweat for hours. 

The heatwave wouldn’t stop him from wearing all black, though. It would take much more to compromise Dan’s aesthetic. Besides, he was used to the heat by now. 

For once he’s grateful that Phil talked them into haircuts last week. There’s sweat beading at his forehead, his curls pushed up off it to keep it from dripping into his eyes, but at least there’s a breeze where it’s tightly cut at the sides. Dan likes when his hair gets long and his curls are more defined, and he loves when Phil’s quiff gets long, especially when it’s floppy and messy from his helmet, but they’ve never been suitable haircuts for the summer. He accepts that, even if he still puts up a faux stink with Phil, pouting dramatically when the scissors and buzzers come out at the fire station and Phil shoves him on the stool with a spare rag slung around his shoulders. 

There’s a few trucks pulled out of the station, two of the big engines and one of the EMT trucks. Dan has to squint, even with his sunglasses on, and holds a hand over his eyes as he waves to the crew scrubbing and hosing them down. 

“Hey Dan!” 

The side of the engine sparkles and shines a bright red, there’s a blessed cooling relief as he walks past and it casts a shade over his body. 

“Looking good,” Dan calls back. Because it does, and the firefighters and paramedics work hard keeping everything perfect and spotless at the station - they deserve the praise. It would be a misconception to think that Dan didn’t like them, or rooted against them, because he doesn’t. He’s a part of the family now, as an extension of Phil, and just because he starts the fires doesn’t mean he doesn’t want them to be put out. _Eventually._

Dan steps through the open garage doors, like he’s done a hundred times before, and the temperature drops another few degrees. There’s a bit of a bustle, not uncommon for the station, and Dan can tell they’ve just come back in from a call by the way gear is getting sorted and re-arranged by the truck that’s pulled inside. 

“Hi buddy,” Dan coos as the station dog, unironically named Spot, trots over wagging his tail. Dan stops to scratch between his ears and a head pokes out from behind one of the engine doors. 

“Hi Dan!” the truck's candidate smiles at him before disappearing back behind the door, her blonde ponytail swinging with the movement. 

“You guys just come in from a call?” he asks, shoving his hands back into his shorts pockets when Spot trots off - the promise of attention in the form of someone opening a particularly crinkly bag of crisps on the other side of the bay. 

“Yep. False alarm though, nothing interesting,” she answers as she clangs some equipment together. Dan hums, nothing interesting ever happened around here, unless he’s directly involved - so he already knows that. “Lieutenant’s in his office,” she adds, leaning back out from behind the door. Now that’s the information Dan wants. 

“Thanks!” Dan salutes with two fingers as he steps backwards towards the firehouse doors. 

Blessed cool, air-conditioned air hits his damp skin once he pulls the metal door open. He swears he can hear a sizzle as he cools off, making the familiar route down the hall, through the main entrance, and past the Chief and Captain’s offices. He says his hellos to the members of the unit that he passes by, and lets out a sigh of relief once he’s stepped through the Lieutenant’s door. 

“It’s fucking hot,” Dan groans as he presses his back against the cool glass of the door. He knows he’s probably leaving a gross Dan shaped sweat print on it, but he can’t find it in himself to care. 

“You like the heat,” Phil responds, looking up from the stack of paperwork he’s hunched over to wink at Dan before looking back down, his pen never leaving the paper. 

Dan takes a gratuitous moment to appreciate his boyfriend’s broad shoulders before he pushes away from the door. It feels both relieving and absolutely disgusting as Dan peels the sweaty straps of his backpack off his shoulders, dropping it on the floor before making his way over to Phil’s desk. 

“Not this kind of heat.” Dan runs a finger over Phil’s desk plate. 

_Lieutenant P. Lester._ It’s kind of hot. It’ll be hotter when he’s Captain though. For all of Dan’s rebellion and issues with authority, he sure does like a man in power. 

“It’s disgusting out there, I’m all sticky and gross.”

Phil’s eyes flick up, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You wanna hop in a cold shower? Or I can just hose you off…” 

Dan snorts. “I’d like to keep my skin, thanks.” 

“Are you staying tonight?” Phil asks as he continues to scribble at his paperwork. 

Dan makes his way around the desk. “You’re on 24, right?” 

“Yeah.” Phil makes a noise of disapproval, but doesn’t stop Dan from pushing him back in his chair and plopping himself down on his lap. 

“Mm, rather be here then.” Dan tugs at the collar of Phil’s polo, pulling him into a kiss. 

“You stink,” Phil hums against Dan’s mouth. Dan opens his eyes, only to dramatically roll them when he sees Phil’s scrunchy nose and bright blue eyes looking back at him. 

“Weee should move somewhere with air conditioning,” Dan retorts. He knows it’s a fruitless debate, it’s more teasing than a genuine request. They like how they are now, they can afford it, and they spend most of their time at the firehouse anyways. Whenever the summer heat waves hit though, Dan kicks the teasing up a notch. 

“Find me a place with air-con that isn’t a penthouse luxury apartment twice as much as our income and I’ll think about it,” Phil pulls Dan close to kiss him again. “Now get off my lap, you’re gonna make me smell.” He says once they part, patting at Dan’s bare knee. 

“Ugh,” Dan groans. “But I’m bored,” he pouts.

He is, incredibly bored, and has been for the past few weeks - the heat wave bringing with it an unusual lack of rain. Which means no fires. Or well, no fires set by Dan. At least until rain returns and there isn’t such a high chance of it spreading. 

There’s an itch starting to spread under Dan’s skin instead, one he’s really wanting to scratch. 

“I have a training scheduled later if you want to watch,” Phil suggests as he rubs at Dan’s knee. 

Dan sighs, leaning his side against Phil’s chest so he can dramatically roll his head against the back of Phil’s chair. “It’s not the same,” he whines. He kind of sounds like a put out toddler, he kind of is sometimes - if you ask Phil. 

“You know I can’t let you light it,” Phil says, sympathetically. 

“Hmmph, yeah.” 

“Go on up and shower,” Phil pushes at Dan’s shoulder, “I have to finish these reports and you’re distracting.”

“Am I?” Dan doesn’t get up, despite Phil’s efforts, instead leaning into him to plant a few kisses against the side of his face. 

“Get up stinky boy,” Phil laughs. Dan finally obliges, a hot shower sounds surprisingly good right now, with his sweat starting to dry cold and clammy against his skin. With one last kiss to Phil’s lips he peels himself up off his lap and makes his way to the door with a groan, slinging his bag back over his shoulder. 

Out of all the places Dan and Phil could’ve met, it was at a fire safety course. Dan was eighteen and tired of bonfires, indoor fireworks, and the occasional lit mattress or sofa he picked up off the curb and drove to a far out field. All he could think about was how he wanted bigger, more, but _how_ was the question. Dan didn’t want to hurt anyone and he definitely didn’t want to get caught, he just needed _more._

After a fire set to a random abandoned shed went a little out of hand - Dan doesn’t think his left eyebrow ever grew back the same - he decided to be less reckless, put in more research. But you can’t necessarily Google “ _what’s the best way to set a building on fire?”_ without getting put on some kind of watch list. So, once Dan had two full eyebrows again, he ended up signing himself up for a week long fire safety class. 

Phil Lester was twenty-two and just a probationary firefighter at the time, fresh out of the academy and with his fire science degree - or, well, degrees. He has two of them. Ever the overachiever, Dan loves that about him. 

Phil was over-enthusiastic and didn’t seem to have full control of his long limbs as he gesticulated wildly in front of the small classroom. He told endearing jokes as he talked about accelerants and burn patterns, without any clue that Dan was giving him love eyes while taking notes on how to _start_ fires, not stop them. 

Well actually, Phil was well aware of the love eyes, just not the latter. Not for a while at least.

Dan took the course three times. Not because he needed it, he learned more than enough the first time around, with Phil’s expertise and silly analogies, but he couldn’t help but come back for more. More of Phil. 

Dan quickly learned Phil brought him that same burning desire as lighting fires. He would’ve taken it a fourth time, if it weren’t for Phil stopping him, pulling him into a supply closet and kissing the absolute life out of him. He had gathered that Dan wasn’t interested in fighting fires, but Phil himself, and they swapped fire safety courses for dinners and movies. 

It took a bit longer for Phil to realize the real reason why Dan took his classes. Dan making Phil recall the fires he fought, in detail, every time he would come home - getting that glazed look in his eyes as he did. Dan coming back at odd hours of the night, smelling much like Phil did himself after fighting a fire. The abandoned building fires that started timing perfectly with Dan’s secret escapades. It was really a no brainer. 

Phil moved up in his career - from teaching and training, rookie to Lieutenant. He jumped from station to station until moving to be at the fire station they call a second home now, and Dan followed every step of the way. He was in love - he _is_ in love - with Phil. And the fires, because once Phil was in on Dan’s _secret kink_ \- Phil’s words, not Dan’s - they started to work together. 

As Phil was moving up the ranks, Dan was moving from abandoned sheds and barns to bigger and bigger buildings - all about to be demolished or left rotting forever. They fell into a system, Phil dropping the case files of abandoned and foreclosed structures on Dan’s lap and Dan giving Phil a ring once he’s felt satisfied with the burn. 

Dan would start the fire, scratch the itch, and Phil would put it out. 

Their little arrangement is what bumped Phil up the ranks so quickly. At least, that’s what Phil would say. Dan would always disagree, running a hand across broad shoulders, down toned arms, insisting it was because Phil put his all into the job. Dan simply gave the quiet town more fires than they’ve seen in a decade, the firefighting itself was always all Phil and his unit. 

Phil’s a true leader, Captain material. And if Dan starts lighting bigger, more impressive fires so Phil can show off, well, that’s just for Dan and Phil to know. Ten years later and Dan is still so proud of Phil. 

Maybe Dan’s a bit more than proud. He loves him. More than he loves the fires. 

Though he’s so glad he can have both. 

Dan also loves his newfound family, in Phil and the firehouse. If you told eighteen-year-old arsonist wannabe Dan that he would be practically living at a fire station, he would’ve laughed in your face. 

He gets a few more greetings as he closes Phil’s office door and makes his way upstairs. It truly is a second home. A whole crew of people that know his name and he knows theirs and they’re genuinely happy to see him - care about him even, and he cares about them. 

“Hey Chief, how are the girls?” Dan asks as he passes the Chief leaving his office. 

“I think we’ve finally eradicated the flu from our household,” he answers as he walks backwards towards the garage door, his crossed fingers waving in the air. “You sticking around for dinner?” 

“I’m staying tonight, yeah,” Dan calls back. 

“You can always expect Dan on taco Tuesday!” the Chief says over his shoulder as he turns to push open the door. Dan laughs to himself, another thing he loves about the firehouse family - the promise of meals not cooked by Dan or Phil. 

The kitchen fires Dan has set off have never been intentional. They keep an extinguisher by the stove now, even though they’ve long decided it’s better to rely on takeout and meals at the firehouse. Dan’s talented at setting buildings aflame, Phil’s good at putting them out, neither of them will be on MasterChef anytime soon. You can’t be good at everything… 

Dan’s smile falters as he climbs up the stairs. He often wonders what they would all think, if they knew. Dan would be in jail, of course - Phil too, probably. But sometimes he thinks about what the look on their faces would be, the disappointment, the hatred, and he thinks that would be worse. 

So he tries not to think about it, what they don’t know won’t hurt them - or him. 

He pauses at the top of the stairs, catching his breath. _What?_ Just because he’s dating a firefighter doesn’t mean he needs to be in firefighter shape. And besides, Phil still gets wheezy at the top of the stairs too… 

Dan makes his way to the bunkroom first, tossing his bag on Phil’s bed and pulling out a pair of pants and shorts that aren’t full of his own sweat. He foregoes the clean black tee in his bag, swiping Phil’s hoodie off the bedpost and heading for the locker room. When he gets there, he punches 1-0-1-9 into Phil’s locker and grabs one of Phil’s towels and his hair and body wash. It’s really second nature, Dan humming to himself as he pads over to the showers and goes about his routine. Maybe Dan’s life is really fucking weird, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

The alarm bell never fails to startle Dan, he’s not sure how the firefighters don’t jump whenever it starts up - they all simply pause, listen for the call, and either go off running if they’re needed or go back to whatever they’re doing if not. Dan’s heart spikes for a moment, but he’s used to it enough that he doesn’t slip on the wet tile when it rings in his ears. 

He pauses with his hands tangled in his soapy hair, listening to the call. He leans back under the water when he hears Phil’s truck called, it’s just a distress call, no fire. The blaring ringing in his ears is replaced with a more muted siren as the trucks roll out. Dan smiles to himself, they get faster every time. 

Dan’s comfortably warm when he’s done with his shower, the cold, sticky sweat replaced with the lingering sweet scent of Phil’s body wash and Phil’s cozy navy blue department hoodie. Stealing Phil’s clothes is the only time Dan will wear something that’s not black. He pops by the kitchen and lounge and grabs a water and a snack before heading back down. By the quiet of the station, only a few people milling about downstairs, the truck isn’t back from their call. 

He taps out a text to Phil, asking if it’s anything interesting as he plops down in one of the chairs in the garage. It’s much more bearable now that he’s not overheating - not as cool as the station, not as blistering hot as what’s on the other side of the garage doors. It’s fun to watch the crew come back in from a call, Phil barking out orders in that authoritative voice of his while they get everything back in order. He doesn’t get to see it after the big emergencies, because he’s on the scene himself, but the more mundane ones are entertaining enough. Besides, Spot keeps him company if he isn’t riding along. 

And he isn’t today, the Dalmatian hopping up on Dan’s lap as if he’s half his size. It’s probably a funny sight, Dan’s long legs stretched out in front of him as he scrolls on his phone, Spot sprawled across his lap, barely fitting with his paws stretched out every which way. 

He’s daydreaming about the abandoned paper mill just on the outskirts of town - the one he knows he can’t touch in weather like this without starting a small brush fire - when the truck rolls back in. 

Dan can’t help but notice the not so well hidden giggles amongst the crew as they gear down and pack everything away. He hears Phil before he sees him, a row of loud sneezes coming from between the two trucks. Phil appears a few seconds later, sniffling as he tosses his big jacket to another firefighter headed towards the gear room. 

He looks over at Dan with a pitiful face. Dan holds back his laughter, but he’s no better at it than the rest of the unit, Phil’s eyes are bright red and he sneezes three more times before making his way over to Dan. 

“Cat in a tree,” Phil sniffs. 

Dan snorts. “Why didn’t you let someone else get it out?” 

“He was so cute and fluffy how could I say no,” Phil pouts. Dan shakes his head as Phil wipes a tear from his eye. 

Oh how Dan loves his tough-guy firefighter boyfriend. 

It’s hard for Dan to not feel at peace when there’s flames in his eyes, but the itch is still there, crawling under his skin.

He has his toes in the grass, sitting far enough away from the training rig that it placates Phil but annoys Dan. They both know Dan can handle the heat, but it’s more for show. Phil insists that Dan acts like he’s afraid of fire, keep up pretenses if the day ever came where they had to get Dan out of a bind. Dan obliges, he knows it’s for his own good, but he really hates that he can barely feel the heat of the fire on his face as he watches the firefighters follow Phil’s instructions from afar. 

He can’t be too upset over it though, the itch settling as he focuses on something else - the way Phil’s shoulders move as he swings an axe over his head or his firm, strong grip on the firehose. He leans back, the grass tickling at his exposed forearms from where he’s pushed his sleeves up. It’s cooled down now, the sun low in the sky, and it’s pleasant to lay back in the grassy patch behind the firehouse and watch the crew put out the staged fire. Thick black smoke rises to the sky, dissipating into the darkening sky before it gets too high up. 

There’s a calm that washes over him as he follows the smoke with his eyes, but Dan still wishes for rain. 

It takes another two weeks for the heatwave to break, and with it comes rain. 

Dan is beyond antsy. The flat is still warm, but less suffocatingly so as he juggles opening the door with the two large take-away bags in his arms. Phil’s due to be home from his shift soon, and Dan hums to himself as he unpacks their dinner and sets out the table, already plotting how he’s going to go about lighting up the abandoned paper mill. 

It’s with that energy that Dan all but jumps on Phil the second he’s in the door. 

“Missed you,” Phil hums against Dan’s mouth. Dan hums in agreement, pressing their lips back together. Phil smells sweet as Dan buries his face in his neck, it’s comforting after a night apart - Dan not spending the night at the firehouse during Phil’s 24-hour shift. 

But it’s been too long, Dan wishes Phil smelled less of his body wash and more smokey like he does after coming home from fighting a fire. 

Phil has a smug look on his face all throughout dinner. He’s cute, incredibly cute, but Dan can’t help but keep flicking his eyes to the manilla file folder that’s sat teasingly on the table next to Phil’s elbow. Phil wants to catch up though, hear about Dan’s day and tell Dan about his - and Dan wants that too, so he puts the itch on the side burner and has dinner with his boyfriend. 

“Do you want dessert?” Phil asks, resting his head in the palm of his hand, looking across at Dan with that adorably cute tilted head of his. Dan pushes his socked toe against Phil’s calf, Phil pushes back. 

“I didn’t pick anything up,” Dan furrows his brows in thought. “Oh, we can make brownies, I think we have the stuff for the-” 

“Dan,” Phil cuts him off, “I was talking about this.” Phil’s grin gets wider as he slides the folder across the table with a finger. 

_Oh._

That’s the kind of dessert Dan can get behind. 

Phil laughs as Dan scrambles for the folder. Dan registers that the chair across from him scrapes against the floor and Phil coming up behind him, wrapping his arms around Dan’s shoulders, but he’s so excited all he can focus on is the blood rushing in his ears. He needs this. 

Dan flips open the folder and the pulsing behind his ears falls to a low thrum. He stares at it for a moment, re-reading it a few times before he leans back against Phil, turning his head to meet his eye. 

“What’s up?” There’s confusion all over Phil’s face as he looks back at Dan. 

“Nothing. Nothing, I just…” 

“Hm?” 

“I thought you’d be giving me the paper mill by now.”

“Dan-” 

“No, I know, I know,” Dan looks back down at the file, “you’re the expert, you know when it’ll be the best time.” 

“No.” 

“What?” Dan turns around in his chair, dislodging Phil’s arms. He’s surprised to see Phil’s face so stern. Dan only sees that look on him directed at others, when he’s playing the role of Lieutenant. 

Phil sighs and his eyes soften, “Dan you can’t go into that mill. It’s barely a structure anymore, it’s a death wish to go in _without_ the intent of setting a fire. You’re leaving that one alone.” 

“But-” 

“No.” 

Phil never raises his voice with Dan, but it gets there. It gets there as Dan starts his pouting, his insistence on getting his way with big pleading puppy dog eyes. So Dan backs off. 

He turns back to the file, looking at the picture of the foreclosed house that’s been sitting abandoned on a large field lot across town for the past twenty years. “Can we still make brownies?” 

Phil squeezes at Dan’s shoulder. “Only if you let me lick the spoon.” 

“Phi-il!”

After so many years of setting fires, Dan has a routine. It could be done in his sleep with the amount of times he’s done it, but also with how it lulls him into a calm. He’s methodical, lays his tools and clothes out on the bed and hums to himself as he packs his kit. It’s organized and easy now, especially with Phil’s help. 

Dan tugs on the black fire-resistant jeans Phil got him for Christmas a few years back, and pulls Phil’s hood from his old turnout gear over his head. Once it’s tucked into the collar of his tee shirt, Dan pushes it off of his head and down from his mouth, he’ll pull it up when he needs it. It’s mostly on Phil’s insistence, much like all of his other safety precautions. He has special shoes now, he wears gloves, and carries his tools in a camera bag with a camera - just in case. Phil tries to get Dan to wear a resistant jacket as well, but it’s just so bulky and annoying, especially in the summer heat, so Dan “forgets” it from time to time. 

Once he has everything packed up, he slings his camera bag over his shoulder and rings Phil. 

“Hey,” Phil answers on the third ring, as Dan’s walking out the door. 

“Hi, I’m leaving now.”

“So you’re having dinner in about an hour?” 

“Give me two, please, Phil. It’s been a while. I’ll text you when I’m out, and I’ll call it when I’m ready.” 

Phil makes a disapproving noise, it says what Phil doesn’t need to say. He doesn’t like when Dan stays close to the fire, or especially, in it. Dan knows Phil can’t say as much aloud when he’s at work. 

“No more than two,” Phil says after a pause. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too. Go have fun.” 

They have a system and it works. It keeps Dan safe and out of jail, and it keeps Phil’s crew with the best response rate this district has seen in decades. 

Dan drives across town. He flicks his lights off when he pulls up to the adjacent street and parks in the spot he scoped out two days ago. He knows the engine won’t take this route, no one will see his car, and all he has to do is cross through a yard, then across the small field the abandoned house sits on. It’s probably one of his easiest in and outs to date, it makes the fire burning under his skin spread all over - he can probably stay and watch for a while, settled between the trees in the back of the field without worrying about getting caught. 

The house is pretty pitiful, boarded up and falling apart from the outside. Dan knows it has good bones though, the demolition report says the structure’s still good. It’s a shame really, that no one around here flips houses or buildings like this, they always go straight to demolish. Or they leave the structure abandoned until they rot so much they fall themselves. It’s a good thing for Dan, it’s what makes this town so good for them, but obviously he can’t help but feel the loss when he sets fire to the structures that could’ve been saved if anyone else had cared. 

He thinks about it sometimes, daydreams about flipping one of these beautiful old houses before they get past the point of no return. It would be nice, an old restored house on a big plot of land - enough land for a decent pack of dogs. Phil dreams about it too, even if he laughs Dan off and goes on his conspiracy rants about how all old houses are haunted. 

It’ll never really happen, they know that, but Dan pictures how the old, dilapidated porch would look all fixed up before kicking open the board covering the front door. The floorboards creak under his feet as he makes his way around, but they’re sturdy enough that he doesn’t think he has to worry about it caving in. 

Dan has a plan, he knows Phil won’t like it, but he has more fun when he breaks their rules a bit. 

He does his usual sweep, checking for squatters, animals, or anything out of the ordinary that would stop him or change his plans. When he’s sufficiently satisfied, he strategically places accelerant around the ground floor, then moves to the staircase. 

The steps creak and groan under his feet as he hesitates putting his full weight on them, he deems them okay to climb and ignites the first fire downstairs. It’s just a few small crackles of a fire, barely above burning embers, but by the time he makes it up the stairs it’s spreading quickly. 

A calm, sated feeling starts to wash over Dan, the heat and smoke easing the itch that’s been crawling under his skin for the better half of a month now. But he wants more, he always wanted more. 

He takes his time upstairs. He doesn’t need to set out too much accelerant up here, not with how the fire below was already starting to roar, but he wants to take his time. Appreciate it, relish it. 

Dan pulls Phil’s fire hood up over his head as he walks from room to room. It’s getting hotter, sweat starts to drip from his upper lip as he tugs the bottom half of the hood up, covering his mouth and nose. If he’s going to be directly ignoring Phil’s wishes by setting a fire upstairs, having it burn on all floors from the start, the least he can do is care a bit about his lungs. 

There’s a sufficiently satisfying fire burning throughout the house by the time Dan makes his way to the room with the window he’s scoped out in advance. He knows he can make the jump from it, that’s why he risked torching the second floor as well. That’s why he’s lingered in the burning house, because he knows he can. The itch under his skin has fully dissipated with the danger, the bit of carelessness as he stands in the middle of the room, watching the flames engulf the hallway, creeping towards him. 

Sweat is dripping down into his eyes and with the smoke his vision is hazy, but it doesn’t stop the grin on his face as he relishes in the heat and destruction. He’s not afraid. He’s calm. Satisfied. 

It’s when he’s finally pulling off the board covering his escape window that he hears the voice. There’s two places his mind goes to, both equally concerning: the prolonged time in the smoke has gotten to his head and he’s hearing things or his sweep wasn’t thorough enough and he missed something. 

He’s not coughing, he’s barely short of breath. And he’s never not thorough, it’s how he’s able to keep up with his… habit. 

So what was he hearing? 

Dan shakes it off, swinging a leg out the window and looking down out of the burning building. He definitely can make the jump. As he straddles the window, he turns his head to take one last look into the flames eating the structure from the inside out. 

Oh. Of course. 

Dan grins, moving a hand from its grip on the sill to pull the fire hood down and off his face. 

“You come here often?” he calls in a seductive voice, the charm of it slightly ruined by the cough that rips through his chest. 

The firefighter steps further into the room, flames all around him, until he’s stood right in front of Dan. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Phil says once he pulls his hat and mask off. Through the smoky haze and Dan’s sweat blurred eyes, he can still see the way Phil rolls his eyes with his words. 

Dan leans forward so he can grab at the front of Phil’s jacket. “What are you doing here? I didn’t text you yet.” Even in his confusion, he can’t deny how downright _sexy_ Phil looks up close in full gear with flames behind him - slowly pouring into the room. A voice calls over Phil’s radio before Phil can respond. 

“Lieutenant, report.” 

Phil looks Dan right in the eye as he lifts his hand and squeezes at the walkie strapped across his chest, “Coming out Chief.” Dan suppresses a snort, Phil’s warning gaze softens as he holds back laughter as well. “Must’ve just seen a shadow, there’s nothing here.” 

Phil turns the volume dial on his walkie down before a response comes through, then moves his hand to squeeze around Dan’s. 

“You not texting me is exactly why we’re here,” Phil responds to Dan’s question. “It’s been three hours, I was worried,” he adds, his stern look pulling into a frown. 

_Three hours?_ Dan really must’ve been daydreaming longer than he thought. This is why he can’t go so long between fires. 

“For good reason I might add!” Phil gestures around the room with his hand that’s holding his hat. “We’re talking about this when you get to the house.” 

“Yes, dad,” Dan groans, but there’s a cheeky grin on his face. What can he say? He has a thing for people in authority… telling him what to do… in uniform. 

Or maybe he just has a thing for Phil. 

“Shut up,” Phil laughs. He squeezes at Dan’s hand before letting it go. “Get out of here, firebug.”

Dan’s grip on Phil’s heavy fire jacket tightens as Phil tries to step away, pulling him back into his space. He tugs him down, and Phil goes easily - even if he does it with a smirk and a shake of his head. 

The kiss tastes of salty sweat and the smoky ash that’s now dirtying both of their faces. Dan’s absolutely high off of it. Both kissing Phil and the scorching heat of the flames surrounding them dousing his heart in accelerant and tossing a lit match into the center of his chest. 

Dan’s once again reminded that this is a feeling he will happily chase forever. 

“Love you,” Dan hums against Phil’s mouth before giving him one last quick peck. They both really ought to be going. 

Phil pulls the hood back over Dan’s head when they part. “Get home safe.” 

Dan smiles, even though Phil can’t see it through the hood covering his mouth, and nods as Phil puts his mask and hat back on. Dan takes a few hundred mental images of Phil, suited up, in front of a room slowly engulfing in flames and prays that the hard drive in his brain will store them forever. 

“Fuck this fire up, Phil!” Dan calls before swinging his other leg over. He doesn’t hesitate, readying himself to jump and going right for it, his feet hitting the grass with a slight sting and a barely audible thud over the roaring house fire. 

It’s ridiculously easy for Dan to get away, the fire company all still at the front of the house, he simply jogs across the field and into the tree line. He only looks back once he’s slumped down against one of the trees, completely out of sight, but with the perfect view of the fire. 

This is the closest they’ve ever cut it. Dan never loses track of time, and he always lets Phil know when he’s out of the fire, so the trucks have never showed up when Dan was still inside whatever structure he was lighting. 

His heart is racing with the danger and controlled chaos as he watches the firefighters douse the flames. It settles into a calm, one that spreads throughout his body and melts all the tension in his muscles away. 

A flame overtakes the window he just jumped out of, being fed and fueled by the outside air far faster than the fire hoses can tame it. Dan’s eyes never leave it. 

He feels at peace. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanted to pop in a heads up that this chapter does have a scene depicting being trapped in a fire & at a hospital if that isn't your jam   
> and i also bumped up the rating from t. did it need it? maybe not. do i err on the side of over cautious when i can't tell? yeah lmao

_Everything feels wrong. Dan doesn’t have to dig deep to know it’s wrong. Not telling Phil, the tears in the thighs of his jeans from hopping the fence, the rotting wood under his feet, even the smell of the accelerant seems off._

_The itch overpowers the wrongness, though, as it always has, and Dan ignites the highest he could get. It’s not the very top floor, the other staircases too rotted away for even his own nimble and well practiced feet, but it’s high up enough to ensure that full blown burn he craves so deeply._

_Flames catch with Dan’s breath, roaring to life far quicker than he’s ever seen before. He knew, he always knew this place was special, and now he’s seeing it before his very eyes._

_Such a satisfying burn._

_He reaches to pull the fire hood around his neck up over his mouth as he turns on his heel towards the window he had already kicked out, the one that sits just above an old dumpster within jumping distance._

_And then, he’s falling. Every organ in his body feels weightless as the sinking feeling looming over him all night becomes real._

_It feels like forever and in instant, Dan flickering between an outsider's perspective and his own as he falls and falls._

_The drop, a weight on his chest, blackness thicker than smoke._

_Then, nothing._

_Dan slowly blinks his eyes open, struggling as if lead weights are attached to his eyelashes, waking up._

Dan is staring at a flame again. 

It’s not at all uncommon in this household, but Phil has been growing concerned. The deep, heavy sighs. The longing in his eyes when he thinks Phil isn’t looking. The increase in ride alongs, a desperate hope every distress call will turn to flames. A hope he doesn’t have to vocalize for Phil to see. 

Phil can feel the longing as if it were in his own chest. He isn’t a firebug, he doesn’t like to set fires. He likes to put them out. He’s dreamed of putting them out ever since he was a small child, chasing and being chased by his brother in the front garden, bright red plastic helmets jostling around on their small heads. Phil grew into his, Martyn did not. Everyone has their own thing. 

Dan’s thing is setting the fires. Phil’s is putting them out. Martyn’s is - apparently - scratching records at underground clubs that reek of hallucinogenic drugs and stale beer.

Phil thinks it might be a soulmate thing, feeling so deeply for Dan it’s as though the other man’s feelings are in his very chest. Dan thinks it’s ridiculous, rolling his eyes at most things that aren’t tangible, things he can’t reach out and grasp in the palm of his hand, but he doesn’t dare deny it. 

Dan feels it too, Phil knows it to be true. He’s sure of it in the way Dan, ever the oversleeper, is up and out of bed before Phil even wakes on days that the pounding drilling of an invisible jackhammer chips away at Phil’s brain. Whether they’re at the firehouse or in their flat, there’s never a day Phil wakes with a budding headache without a steaming mug of strong coffee being placed into his hand. 

He’s sure of it in the way Dan reaches for the remote and changes the channel before Phil can even ask. And in the way Dan flexes that charisma of his, reaching across the long table in the firehouse for another bread roll as he expertly changes the conversation of a dozen people the second he senses discomfort by his side. 

It’s a soulmate thing, probably. A Dan and Phil thing, definitely. 

Dan may not believe in ghosts or higher powers or Phil’s psychic relatives, but Phil doesn’t think he has to to believe in those things to believe in whatever it is that binds them together. 

Love isn’t necessarily tangible, but it’s hot on Phil’s palm as he wraps his hand over Dan’s, putting out the flame of the powder blue lighter Dan has been flicking with his thumb for the past thirty minutes. 

Phil settles in Dan’s lap, swinging his legs across the length of the sofa and pushing Dan’s hand down so he can look him in the eye without the lighter between their noses. He rubs at Dan’s shoulder where he’s snaked his other arm around behind his neck, feeling Dan’s long sigh melt something away - if only slightly. 

Dan is the one to press forward, nuzzling at Phil’s nose before placing a chaste kiss at the corner of his downturned mouth. It’s soft and sweet, Phil is unable to stop his lips from twitching upward. Dan mirrors the small smile, proud of himself for the reaction as if it’s the very first time he’s accomplished it - and not the millionth over the past decade that it actually is. 

They’re just like that, it seems. That’s a flame Phil could never put out. It’s not a fire that can be doused, even if he tried. Though he wouldn’t dare. 

“Thank you,” Dan says. 

Phil hums in response. The lighter in Dan’s hand is forgotten in the crease of the sofa, instead he grips tightly around Phil’s hand, in Phil’s hair. Fingernails leave crescent shaped indents in the soft skin at Phil’s waist. 

“Do you think I have a problem?” Dan asks.

The words are the first spoken not in hushed breaths or too-loud moans for the paper thin walls of their flat. He doesn’t sound sad, or upset, his tone is more curious than anything else. Phil, of course, picks up on what’s hidden beneath that. 

Dan is looking up at the ceiling, his bare back flat on the sofa. Phil’s is pressed against the scratchy cushions of the back of the sofa, squished up on his side between it and Dan’s warm body.

They really should replace the cushions for how often this happens. The whole sofa is pretty scratchy though, made of an awful material for something that’s supposed to bring comfort. Phil reckons whatever material it is is highly flammable, as well. But there’s nothing they can really do about it, it came with the rental. 

Which means they probably, definitely, should stumble down the hall to the bedroom more often, but what the landlord doesn’t know won’t kill them. Hopefully. 

“Do you want me to answer that?” 

Phil drags his hand across damp skin, up the soft, sparse hair on Dan’s stomach, walking two fingers up his chest. Dan breathes in, then out with every gentle tap. 

“Hm,” Dan’s response is low in his throat, the sound as thoughtful as the pull of his brow that Phil watches intently. 

Phil trails his fingers up Dan’s throat, cupping at his jaw with a soft brush of his thumb against a hot, still-pink cheek, before swiping away the worry between his brows. He follows the hair of Dan’s brow, swooping his thumb down to rest just under his eye, pressing against the smattering of freckles that live there in the warmer, brighter months. 

“You’re not hurting anyone,” Phil finally says, not really answering Dan’s question at all. Because if he’s being honest, he’s not sure he has an answer. And if he does, he’s not sure Dan will like it. 

“Hell, you save a lot of people teardown costs, our firehouse gets all the fancy new equipment from the city for our response times, and you’ve gotten a few people some pretty decent insurance payouts,” Phil says softly. 

Dan’s arm that’s smushed between them wiggles around, Phil shifts his damp skin away from scratchy fabric, and Dan hums as he scratches a few fingers up and down a small stretch of Phil’s back. 

Phil hums as well, leans into it even though the temperature of the room and their warm bodies are making sure the sweat stays on his skin. They really need a place with air-con. 

“Remember that big house across town? They finally tore it down because of the fire, and now it’s a community garden.” Phil watches Dan’s face intently, reading the small tugs and twitches like only he could with Dan’s eyes closed off behind delicate lids. 

“It would still be rotting away if it wasn’t for you.” 

Dan sighs, it’s felt more than heard. 

“I’m not doing much of anything now though,” Dan says in a small, slightly exasperated sounding voice. He blinks open his eyes, looking up at Phil with glossy eyes, nothing short of pleading. 

“I know,” Phil hums, holding the side of Dan’s face more firmly - like if he dared to let go the other man would simply sink into the cushions with the forgotten powder blue lighter. 

“I know,” he repeats as he wipes away moisture - wetness that couldn’t be blamed on the lack of cooled air. “We’ve been here for a while. It was only a matter of time.” 

More tears fall. Dan blinks rapidly a few times before Phil leans across them both, grabbing a tee shirt or a pair of pants - he doesn’t really know, or care - to blot at Dan’s eyes. 

“You like it here,” Dan protests. This isn’t an uncommon conversation. 

“I like it here,” Dan’s voice cracks. He sniffs and shakes his head - shaking himself out of it, as Phil has learned. Phil tosses Dan’s shirt back on the floor. 

“We could like it somewhere else too,” Phil says. He rubs his thumb against Dan’s flushed cheek one more time before running his hand back down his neck. It stops at the spot just around the center of Dan’s chest, Phil’s palm flat against warm skin. “Home is here for me.”

The words settle around them, thicker than the hot air. 

“You followed me all those years ago,” Phil cuts through it. “If it’s time, I’ll follow you.” 

He says it like he means it, because he does. And he knows Dan knows that, but he doubles down anyway, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of Dan’s nose, then his sweaty forehead. 

“I follow you into the flames,” Phil tastes the salt from Dan’s skin on his tongue as it swipes against his bottom lip, “I’d follow you anywhere.” 

Dan sighs. Phil categorizes it as just as dissatisfied, but much less sad. He doesn’t take offense, he understands. Well, he doesn’t _really_ understand entirely, but he knows Dan’s itch can become unbearable. He can feel it under his own skin when it goes too long, and it has. So he’s nothing but empathetic. 

Dan stretches his chin up, making a small noise in the back of his throat when he can’t quite reach Phil. Phil meets him the rest of the way, accepting the love he has to give. 

And that’s all he can feel in Dan’s kiss: love. Love and understanding and devotion. 

It’s all the same feeling really, scrunched up into a tight ball by Dan’s fist and pressed straight through Phil’s chest that night all those years ago when a much younger, much more unsure Phil somehow had the courage to pull the hot guy who kept taking his fire safety course into a supply closet. 

He might go down in history as the only firefighter that doesn’t groan at the reminder of those required probationary teaching hours. 

Or, well, he groans about them for completely different reasons. 

“I love you,” Dan says against Phil’s lips. He doesn’t have to, for Phil to know it, but he does. He couldn’t imagine not saying it, and neither could Phil. Whoever said that the repetition of the words make them feel or mean any less had clearly never known a love like Dan and Phil. 

“I,” Phil presses a kiss to Dan’s mouth, then just below on his chin, “love, another on his jaw, “you.” Phil peppers kisses all over Dan’s face, on cheeks and over dimples, not letting up as he pecks and pecks and pecks down Dan’s neck. 

The room fills with giggles as Dan squirms against their god-awful scratchy sofa. He’s probably giving himself a sofa burn, but whenever Phil tries to pull away he’s met with a wheezy, giggly string of “ _no don’t stop”_ s. 

Kisses are being placed on Dan’s left knee when he finally utters something that isn’t a giggle or a plea for more. 

“Laughter. Fire. Sex,” he says with a pause between each word, like he’s listing them off in his head as he thinks them. But Phil knows better than that, it’s rare that Dan says things without thought. 

“Grocery list?” Phil asks, peering over the knee he has bent up in his clutches to look at Dan with a smirk. 

Dan snorts. “Something like that,” he says with a huff of air from his nose and a shake of his head. 

“Well.” Phil kisses Dan’s knee one last time, then moves down his shin. “You forgot the food.” 

Dan smiles. He wiggles his toes where they’re pressed against Phil’s abdomen. Phil giggles, sliding his hand down Dan’s calf as he sits back to wrap his hand around Dan’s foot. 

“That too, I guess.” Dan grins as he attempts - and fails in Phil’s strong grip - to kick his foot forward. 

More laughter. More sex. Four cornettos eaten with bare bums on kitchen tile after the heaving, sweaty question of: “ _do ya want to sit by the open freezer with me for a bit?”_

A distinct lack of fire. 

Maybe Phil watches too many cheesy movies, maybe it’s the psychic grandmother, but he always thought you would know, right when you woke up, if you were about to have the worst day of your life. 

Phil wakes as normal as any other Tuesday. 

Up before Dan, he peels himself away from the soft, warm body next to him and rolls out of bed for coffee and a shower. He hums as he goes about his morning, caffeinating, getting ready, double checking his bag for work. Dan is just waking as he steps back into their room - shoes on, the ends of his hair still wet, and a steaming mug in his hand. 

Dan groans softly, his face squishing up as he stretches. Phil watches from the doorframe with a fond smile as Dan burrows himself back into the duvet, slow blinking squinty eyes look his way. 

“Do you want this?” Phil asks, lifting the coffee in his hand. 

“Mm,” Dan hums. “Yes, please.” His voice is nothing more than a quiet mumble, but Phil understands it. He’s quite fluent in Dan. 

The only sounds in the room are the small oscillating fan by Dan’s side of the bed and Phil’s shoes tapping against the wooden floor. He places the mug on Dan’s nightstand and meets him halfway, bending down as Dan pushes himself up on an elbow for a kiss. 

“I’ll see you later?” It’s asked as a question, though Phil knows the answer. Dan hasn’t spent any of Phil’s 24-hour shifts entirely at home in the past month, always showing up a few hours after Phil when the sun makes their flat unbearable. 

Phil wants to believe it’s about the heat, but he knows there’s more to it. A pang of guilt squeezes at his chest as Dan looks up at him with sleepy eyes, giving him a small nod. He’s run out of places to give Dan to set aflame. 

It’s been twenty-seven days and they’re both feeling it. 

“Be safe,” Dan calls after him. 

Phil stops with a hand at the door frame, looking back at his boyfriend with a small smile. “Love you.” 

Just like any other Tuesday. 

The clock ticks on the wall by the door and Phil chews the back of his pen. It’s a habit he’s picked up from Dan, he reckons. He never used to reach for things to put in his mouth when particularly spaced out or anxious, but now it’s completely subconscious. He briefly wonders why he even has an analogue clock as he rolls the plastic between his teeth, the ticking somehow making him overwhelmingly aware of his own breathing. 

For how focused he is on the sound, he’s only made aware of the time by the soft knock on his office door. Then, “You coming to eat, Lieutenant?” 

Phil doesn’t know why for a moment he thought it was Dan. Dan never knocks. 

_Where is Dan?_

“Yeah,” Phil calls back. He drops his pen on the paperwork on his desk and grabs his phone. He shoots Dan a text - a simple: _Working from home? -_ before making his way out of his office. 

As Phil slides into a chair at the table with his plate, nodding along to two different conversations being had around him, his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

An even simpler: _yeah_

It feels odd as the sun goes down, but Phil thinks it’s probably good. Not being so glued together. It also means that the flat must be a bearable temperature, for Dan to not come running to the firehouse in the peak of the day. For that, Phil is grateful. 

As much as he loves Dan, he doesn’t necessarily love when the flat is the temperature of the sun and that sweaty body is wrapped all around Phil’s, equally as sweaty, body. 

It’s just… odd to not have him around. It’s even stranger to not have little streams of consciousness and updates about Dan’s day pop up on his phone. 

When the alarm bell rings, Phil feels a heavy weight drop in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t hear the clock on the wall ticking. The tip of his pen pauses on the form he was filling, blue bleeding on the _t_ he just crossed. 

The pit of his stomach opens up into a black hole as he hears the emergency and location. All he can hear is the ringing in his ears as he shoots up from his desk so quickly his chair slams into the window behind him, and he’s running to the engine bay with his office door left wide open.

Phil is a firefighter. It’s pretty much second nature to close doors. 

He knows. Because of course he knows. It couldn’t be anything, anyone, else. 

The unit shares a few high fives as the engine rips out of the garage. Their fastest gear up get out time to date. Phil doesn’t care. 

His ears continue to ring with the siren of the engine. He sees white hot, looking straight ahead at the dark streets illuminated by the engine lights. His knee is shaking so violently that his engineer comments on it. 

Phil tells him to drive faster. He does. 

Even with the darkening sky, they see smoke before flames. An orange glow flickers around the thick, dark smoke as they approach. There’s chatter in the truck that Phil mostly tunes out. There’s only one thing on his mind as his eyes meet the building engulfed in flames. 

He’s out of the truck before the wheels even stop turning. If he were driving, he’d go straight through the fence. Heavy-booted feet stay in motion as he rips open a compartment and grabs the bolt cutters and an SCBA tank. There’s sound all around him, the loud engine pulling to a stop, the roar of the fire, shouts of the other firefighters, the snap and clang of the chain he cuts into. But nothing is louder than the rapid beating of Phil’s heart. 

The bolt cutters clang to the ground, and Phil multitasks, adjusting and securing his pack as he pushes the gate of the fence open with his back. The engine rips to life again, slowly following Phil in, and he realizes half of his unit have hopped out of the truck with him, all pulling on their own breathing tanks. 

“Stand down,” Phil calls over the engine. The confusion and protests are immediate. 

“No one goes in,” Phil instructs as he pulls off his helmet. “The structure isn’t safe. I think I saw something, I’m going in for a sweep. Stand down unless I radio or mayday.” 

“Lieutenant-” 

“I am the commanding officer on scene,” Phil shouts before adjusting his mask over his face and replacing his helmet. “You still have something to say?” 

He’s met with shaking heads. 

The image of the line of firefighters, standing at attention with their helmets in their hands and tanks on their backs etches itself into Phil’s brain as he turns and runs. People who have held Phil’s life in their hands, and theirs in his, far too many times for him to count. They’re ready to follow him into the flames. But he can’t send them into a death-wish like this. 

That’s why he never gave Dan the paper mill. 

Phil doesn’t stop running as he hears new, approaching sirens. He twists the dial on his radio when he hears the voice of his Chief crackling through. 

You can’t disobey your commanding officer if you can’t hear him. 

If they want to take his bugles, they can do it once Phil knows Dan is safe. Because that’s all he cares about as he runs straight into the fire. 

Visibility is low. Bright flames and thick smoke surround him completely. Five steps into the building and if he weren’t as experienced, as trained, Phil would definitely not be able to find the entrance he just walked through. It’s that bad. 

His jaw clenches as two opposing forces battle within him. The firefighter and Phil. 

It gets all jumbled up somewhere as he assesses the room, repeated calls of _fire department, call out_ mixed with desperate shouts of Dan’s name while he runs on less than careful feet. 

He doesn’t scope out a path, he doesn't duck or crouch as he was trained to do. Phil just runs, quick movements as he listens and searches and shouts until his throat feels as though his breathing apparatus has been giving him smoke instead of air. 

It’s desperation by the time he reaches the back of the mill. Phil spots the burning staircase, the structure disappearing before his very eyes. 

He wants to fall to his knees, let the fire consume him like the black hole in the pit of his stomach. He hates that he knows Dan so well. Well enough to know that he’s here, know his burn pattern, know where he most likely is. 

Somewhere Phil can’t reach. There’s barely anything left and the flames don’t stop devouring. 

Intuition isn’t supposed to be part of the job. Hunches get you killed, the reminder drilled into Phil’s brain during training does circles around his head as he looks up at the disintegrated stairs, calling out. 

No response. 

Intuition makes a good firefighter. Hunches save lives. 

Phil turns the dial on his radio, squeezing around it. 

“Engine eight to main, I need rescue squad on scene.” 

The second dispatch repeats and confirms Phil’s request, his Chief's voice is booming through his radio. He doesn’t turn it back down, scrambling as he desperately tries to see through the flames, hoping another way up will magically appear. 

“Lester, what is going on in there?” 

“I have reason to believe there’s someone on the upper level, but there’s no access,” Phil shouts as he ducks, flames billowing straight for his face. 

“With the state of that structure, we’ll be pulling your body out in recovery, Lester. Pull out, now.” 

“I can’t,” Phil is barely heard above the flames, his voice cracking with more than the abuse from shouting. “I can’t leave h-them.” 

There’s silence over the radio line, the floor creaks and cracks underfoot. Phil doesn’t stop moving. 

“Squad is ten minutes out,” he hears from his radio. “I have truck with the aerial on the east window. Pull out and I’ll get you up there.” 

Phil exhales. It doesn’t help in the slightest. The black hole is still there and his mask fogs up. 

“Copy, pulling out,” Phil says. 

Phil turns on his heel, head whipping in every direction as he searches for the way back. The voice in the back of his mind is so loud, all of his training screaming that this is exactly why they don’t go in it alone. There’s no one watching his back. 

It’s in his confusion that he hears it. He thinks it’s in his own head, a mirage from the heat permeating through his heavy gear. The dial is turned back down, silencing the barking orders from outside the flames. 

Phil hears it again. It’s faint, barely there, but it’s real. The croak of a voice he knows so well is the only thing Phil focuses on as he runs. 

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Dan croaks weakly. 

“Stop it.” The tears in Phil’s eyes burn as he takes off his mask. He pulls his old fire hood away and replaces it with his mask, lifting Dan’s head to secure it as he presses it to his face. Phil chokes on his cough, on the smoke rushing into his lungs as he teeters the edge of hysterics. 

Dan is in front of him, breathing, alive. Pinned down to the floor of a burning building by a large plank from the floor above. If Phil could take his eyes away from Dan, he’d see the gaping hole in the structure above. 

Dan says something Phil can’t hear through the mask with how low his voice is, and a tear from Phil’s eye drops down to the clear shield over Dan’s face. Phil can feel the floor shifting under his knees. 

Phil tugs off his glove and squeezes his hand under the board, finding Dan’s hand and holding tight as he shouts over his radio. 

There’s about fifteen seconds where Phil does wait. Rescue squad is five minutes out. Paramedics are on scene. Two firefighters are gearing up to follow Phil in, because he pushed at the wood pinning Dan down and he doesn’t think he can get it up alone. 

For fifteen seconds he listens to orders as he looks at Dan’s slow blinking eyes, and then he’s moving. 

There’s no time to be waiting. 

“You’re gonna stick with me, okay?” Phil croaks through a cough, wiggling down between the heavy board and the floor. 

It might be the dumbest thing he’s ever done - he could either get himself pinned under just like Dan, or, if his idea works, he’ll be able to use the entire force of his body to push it up just enough for Dan to squirm out. 

There’s a sharp pain in his shoulder that Phil grits his teeth through, but, after a slight struggle, he manages to lift the plank. 

“Dan,” Phil calls. “You have to get yourself out for me.” 

No response. No movement. 

“ _Dan,_ ” Phil pleads. 

Phil is pretty sure he blacks out. 

He’s heard of like, mothers hulking out and lifting cars to save their babies and other unbelievable feats of strength, but he’s never really believed they were anything other than tales. Sure, he’s seen countless firefighters move and pick up far more than he’d imagine they could, and he’s even surprised himself a fair few times. But he’s never actually moved so fast and instinctually to the point where he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Not until now, at least. 

One second, he’s pinned under the board, pleading for Dan to hang on, and then the next the board is gone all together. 

Phil is on his feet with Dan in his arms. He can’t see anything ahead of him, the flames and smoke too thick, but he follows the shouts of the firefighters that have just entered the building as he presses his bare hand to Dan’s hot throat. 

Dan’s pulse is, quite literally a lifeline, keeping Phil stitched together enough to find his way out. His lungs feel like they’ve been replaced with smoke. His eyes burn, his vision so blurry it wouldn’t even matter if the visibility in the room was better. 

Phil doesn’t feel any of that though, as he walks through the flames and maneuvers his way out of the building. All he feels is the faint beating against the tips of his fingers. He doesn’t feel the heat, the burn, the cracking of the floor beneath them. 

He feels movement in his arms, wheezing coughs racking through Dan’s body. He squints to see Dan’s eyes barely cracking open. 

“You better stay alive, so I can kill you later,” Phil manages through his own fit of coughs. 

There’s a hand pulling at the mask on Dan’s face as Dan struggles to roll his eyes. Phil moves his hand from Dan’s neck to the side of the mask, keeping it on. 

“Is that a-” Dan coughs, his entire body shaking in Phil’s arms. “-threat? Or a promise?” 

He’ll kill him. He really will. 

As Phil sees the faint outline of other bodies, finally a sign of exit, he manages to catch low, weak words directed to him. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The words shatter his heart, and then, Dan is taken from his arms. Another pair of sturdy arms take on his own weight, his mask returned to his face. 

It’s no easier to breathe. 

Phil is lucid enough to follow. He’s swallowed enough smoke in his lifetime to push away from the firefighter that took him in his arms, following after the paramedics that have Dan. There’s gasps of _“oh my god, is that-”_ and protests gone ignored as Phil lets his tank and jacket fall to the ground, hopping into the back of the ambulance after Dan. 

He’s not dumb enough to deny the oxygen mask handed to him, but he pushes away the offers of help, far more concerned about Dan than himself. As sirens blare and the ambulance rips away, water finally meets fire. 

For the first time in a long time, Phil isn’t the one putting out Dan’s fire. 

“Phil, he’s going to be okay,” he hears through the ringing of his ears.

Phil refuses to look away from Dan’s face. 

“He’s stable, let me look at that.” 

Phil doesn’t process the words. He barely processes the dull ache in his arm as a hand takes his own. He’s moved and manhandled a bit, but he doesn’t process a thing that’s being done to him. He keeps his eyes on Dan’s face. 

The visibility is low, but it isn’t because of the flames. 

Metaphorically, Phil puts out Dan’s fire. 

With the smoke in his lungs, he somehow remains level headed. He’s poked and prodded as he explains just exactly why his boyfriend was trespassing on foreclosed land with practiced ease. Because they’ve gone over this, they’ve practiced it, they’ve perfected it - though Phil never thought the day would come where he’d actually need to use it. 

Dan is reckless, but meticulous. And people, generally, trust firefighters. 

There’s no real trace on Dan to suspect arson. Phil gestures to the charred camera with a sharp gasp through his teeth as a nurse pops his shoulder back into place. He leaves out the knowledge that he threw the bag it was in - and Dan’s tools - in the flames. The police are a bit useless, and why would a firefighter lie? Phil knew they wouldn’t open an investigation. 

It would be a useful thing to be married, Phil always says, getting that cheeky eye roll from Dan every time. But it proves just as useful being a high ranking firefighter.

With his butt planted firmly on the uncomfortable chair in Dan’s hospital room, nurses and doctors give Phil similar looks to the ones he gets from the firehouse family when Dan spends just as much time there as they do. 

There’s a few pleas for Phil to get checked out beyond resetting his shoulder and the bandages wrapped around his hand, but they die off with the firm shake of his head. They allow it, because he’s a firefighter, and he sure as hell uses it to his advantage. 

Dan’s lungs have seen better days and his chest is badly bruised, but there’s no broken bones or bleeding. He isn’t critical, Phil repeats the words over and over in his head from where he’s pulled his chair over to the side of Dan’s bed. Breathing comes a little easier, holding Dan’s hand in his own, his forehead pressed against warm skin as he stares down at his boots. 

The entire room smells of fire. Dan is in a pale green hospital gown that he’ll probably complain about not being his aesthetic when he wakes, but the smokey smell still clings to his hair and skin. Phil probably isn’t helping, still in turnout gear from the waist down, but he’s more or less desensitized - only realizing how strong it is whenever the door clicks open and he looks up to scrunched noses. 

If Dan were awake, he’d probably call it comforting. 

Phil may doze off a few times as he waits for Dan to wake, but the dull throb of his hand and the seemingly revolving door of the hospital room make sure he isn’t asleep for long. Nurses, doctors, firefighters, his Chief. The door doesn’t seem to stop, but at least it never seems to be bad news. Where he’s worried about their firehouse family being pissed off, they all seem relieved, actually. The Chief even seems… proud as he nods his head at Phil, giving him a _“good work”_ before smiling over at Dan with something looking of relief settling on his shoulders. 

There’s a lot of things to worry about, but at least the list is slowly growing shorter. 

When Dan finally wakes, Phil is halfway to dreamland. He’s tugged all the way out by Dan’s voice. 

“God, is that you?” Dan’s voice is hoarse and low, sounding not dissimilar, but far worse, than when he’s ill or has just woken from a long night of… talking. 

Phil lifts his head instantly, looking over at brown eyes that are squinting at the harsh overhead lights. 

He looks like shit. Hair all matted and messy, splotches of red on his face from heat exposure, dark spots of soot smeared in places Phil missed earlier when he wiped at Dan’s face with a damp paper towel. The corner of Dan’s mouth tugs up the smallest bit, in that smirk Phil knows and loves. 

And also hates sometimes. 

Dan looks like shit, and Phil thinks he's absolutely beautiful. 

“Shut up,” Phil says wetly. He squeezes softly at Dan’s hand. Dan squeezes back, his brows tugging together as his eyes move from Phil’s face to where their hands are connected. 

“ _Phil_ ,” Dan frowns. 

Phil wiggles the tips of his fingers of his bandaged hand that are still exposed. It’s a minuscule movement. 

“It’s barely second degree,” he says with a shrug. 

Dan’s frown deepens, a dimple frowning with him. 

“How are _you_ feeling?” Phil asks. 

Dan’s eyes flick back up to Phil’s. They’re noticeably wet. 

“I don’t know, you tell me.” 

Phil squishes his lips together as he recalls everything doctors have thrown at him over the past few hours that have felt like days. 

Dan hums as he listens, small agreements of _“yeah”_ and “ _that makes sense”_ cutting into Phil’s retellings. 

“They said they were surprised, that you have lungs like a firefighter.” 

Dan snorts at that, then groans at the feeling it causes in his tender throat. 

Phil rubs his thumb against his hand in small, gentle circles as Dan coughs. 

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says softly. 

Phil hums. Then, he pushes up from his chair, gently wrapping his arms around Dan the best he can. Dan leans into it, a small content hum that Phil is very familiar with is in his ear. 

Dan groans a bit as he stretches up, but that doesn’t seem to stop him. Phil’s shoulder aches as he bends down further and Dan hums low and broken in the back of his throat, nuzzling into Phil’s neck. 

“You smell good,” Dan says softly through a deep, ragged breath. 

Phil’s throat feels tight, not at all from the smoke. 

“Fuck off,” Phil says with a cough and a sniffle. “You almost died.” 

“Did not,” Dan quips, his voice muffled with his lips on Phil’s neck. 

Before Phil can respond, Dan sighs - deep and shaky. A bit sad. Phil feels it in his own chest. 

“I’m sorry.” Dan’s voice breaks with Phil’s heart all over again. 

“Don’t apologize.” Phil holds Dan tight. As tight as he can without either of them groaning in pain. 

“Just don’t,” Phil says into Dan’s messy, sweat-dried hair. “Don’t fucking do that again.” 

“I don't-” Dan jolts, hiccuping. “I don’t know how it got that bad. I’m so sorry.” 

Dan’s body shakes against Phil’s. Or Phil’s body shakes against Dan’s - it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. Maybe there aren’t any beginnings or endings at all. 

“Shh.” Phil presses a kiss to Dan’s hair, then pulls back to place another at his temple. 

“You need to sign me up for arsonists anonymous,” Dan says with a wet laugh. 

Phil lets out a pathetic snort of a laugh. Dan’s chuckle vibrates against him. They both mumble something about it not being funny at the same time, only making each other laugh more until there’s a shared groan of pain. 

“Is that a thing that exists?” Phil asks. 

“I dunno, Google it.” Dan grips tighter at Phil’s shoulders before he can move, “Wait, actually don’t.”

“Right, watch lists.”

Dan huffs out a laugh. “No. I just don’t want you to let me go.”

Phil sighs, leaning in closer to Dan so he can bury his face in his neck. He presses a kiss there. 

“I’m pissed at you.” 

Dan hums. Probably in agreement. 

“I love you,” Phil says, lips brushing against Dan’s neck. 

“I need to stop,” Dan replies. 

Phil hums. Not in agreement or disagreement - just in acknowledgement. They’ll have this conversation - these many, many conversations - later. They need to do that, and they will. 

But for now, all they really need is to hold on tight to each other. And not let go. 

At least, not until Dan asks if the hospital vending machines have coke. 

Phil feigns that he can’t go get him one, because he doesn’t have legs. Dan slaps his good arm and tells him that’s really not an appropriate joke for where they are, though they both giggle anyway. 

Phil eventually makes the journey alone, after Dan’s threats of showing the whole floor his bare ass in the _downright offensive_ hospital gown he’s wearing. 

Laughing hurts their throats, but that doesn’t stop Dan’s witch cackle from following Phil all the way down the hall. 

Dan is staring at a flame again. 

And this time, Phil doesn’t put it out. 

“It’s barely September,” Phil says, sitting down on the floor next to Dan with a soft thud. 

His knee bumps against Dan’s as he folds them. Dan leans into the small touch in a not at all small way, almost toppling them both over with his unexpected weight at Phil’s side. 

Once their laughter subsides and Phil has taken a bite at Dan’s stuck out tongue more than a few times, Dan looks back to the fire with one last scrunch of his nose. 

“If you can start buying peppermint mochas in October, I can light the fireplace now.” 

Phil leans into Dan’s side, dropping his head on his shoulder. Dan stares into the fire, Phil’s eyes flick upwards. 

Two framed prints, pictures taken by Dan, hang on the wall above the fireplace. That old, condemned house across town, decaying in the hours before it was set aflame. Next to it is a shot of a thriving garden from afar, dots of tiny people kneeled down in the dirt and watering plants. 

What the rare occasional guest isn’t told as they admire the pieces, is that the images are a set of three, not two. The third image, the one they don’t hang, is actually the second piece in the series. Dark and hazy, a vibrant flash of orange taken with hands that shook from adrenaline from a safe spot tucked between trees - it’s their favorite, but it remains tucked away where only they can admire it. 

Below the prints, nestled between far too many scented candles and plants that definitely don’t see enough water or sunlight, sit a whole slew of framed photos. Most of which were taken on holiday, when Phil finally took a few weeks off on insistence from Dan and the whole firehouse while his hand was still healing. Dan also insisted they go somewhere cold. iPhone selfies with red, frozen noses. Phil, pouting on his bum at the bottom of a mountain with a snowboard strapped to his feet, after Dan had taken out his phone instead of lending him a hand. Hot tub steam blurs some of the images, though somehow the snowball Phil had plopped on Dan’s head remains captured in crystal clear high definition. 

One picture stands out amongst the rest, though, one from before their trip to New Zealand. It’s the only one on the mantle not taken by one of them, and it’s lit by the bright heat of the sun outside of the firehouse. Phil in full regalia, Dan by his side in dark trousers and a black button up shirt he remembers sweating right through. That’s the good thing about black, Dan always points out whenever they stand by the fire, you’d never be able to tell. It’s the day Phil was promoted to Captain, and the day he was honored for his bravery - saving one of the firehouse’s own. 

Because that’s what Dan was - family, one of them. 

“Yeah?” Phil looks back to the fire. “Who made those rules?” 

“I did.” 

“So you’re saying I _am_ allowed to say the ‘C’ word in October?” 

“That is not at all what I said.” Dan lightly shoves at Phil’s knee. It’s warm - Dan’s hand and Phil’s knee. 

Their faces are flushed from the heat of the fire, and Phil realizes it’s the first time in weeks that he’s started to break a sweat in their home. 

That has nothing to do with the heatwave being over though, and everything to do with the blessed air conditioning of their new place. 

It isn’t the forever home of their dreams, but it’s a real _proper_ apartment. One they can actually afford with promotions and new jobs. One in a new building without creaky floors and scratchy borrowed furniture. One with functioning heat and air conditioning. One with a fireplace and multiple floors - two sets of stairs for Phil to fling Dan over his shoulder and run up and down after they’ve had far too much wine for such endeavors. 

But, of course, Phil never drops him. 

Dan does. Drop Phil quite a few times, that is - but that’s neither here nor there. And besides, it’s not like Dan’s a firefighter. 

Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look at that i finally completed this in the spirit of me suddenly being able to pick back up on things i started writing pre-lockdown and with a Heavy hand of inspiration sparked (hah) by [this _hot_ moodboard](https://midnightradio.tumblr.com/post/621028424918679552/third-degree-by-lespritdelester) andrea made a bit ago (sorry couldn't help myself there, but Seriously what the fuck look at how gorgeous)   
> i can now say that dan is..... dan... is... not... on fire....


End file.
